


An Erotic Sail

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Boat Sex, Boats and Ships, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Sugar Daddy John, Yacht daddy John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-18 12:17:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13681518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: Sherlock, fresh off a Semester at Sea ship in Crete, sees a gorgeous older man, and I'm sure you can guess what happens next.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't actually intend to title this An Erotic Sail. I thought of it, had a laugh, and then thought I'd better come up with a better one. Well, I didn't think of a better one, and then I thought, what better day to start posting this than Valentine's Day? So, here you are, an erotic tale with a silly title.

Sherlock swayed on the dock, so accustomed to life on a boat that the solid ground felt fluid. It didn’t help that other students, eager to fetch their luggage and get to the hotel and explore Crete, bumped and jostled him in their haste. He would have much preferred to stay at a distance, let everyone else walk over each other so he could fetch his without interruption, but there simply wasn’t enough room on the dock. And the faculty were not amenable to him staying on the boat.

So there he stood, swaying, casting a withering glare at anyone who would dare bump him and otherwise ignoring everyone around him.

Perhaps if he’d been more aware of his immediate surroundings, things would have been different. He might not have noticed the man strolling along a parallel dock with sun-kissed skin and windblown hair. Older than Sherlock by at least fifteen years and at least six inches shorter with a scruffy ginger beard, he had muss and swagger that only went together in one so wealthy he didn’t have to worry about what other people thought. The boat shoes without socks, plaid shorts, golf shirt, and aviator sunglasses should have looked tacky, but this man carried them off like a finely tailored suit.

Of course, if he’d been paying more attention, he would have noticed Wilkes muttering, “Never in a million,” before shouting, “Oi!”

Sherlock flinched. “What the—“

But Wilkes had his hands cupped around his mouth, still shouting, “In the plaid!”

And to Sherlock’s horror, the man actually paused and turned his head.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sherlock muttered.

“You a favor,” Wilkes retorted before cupping his hands again. “My friend wants to fuck you.”

“For God’s sake—“

“Kronos Hotel!” And then Wilkes, the bastard, turned to Sherlock with the most annoying shit-eating grin Sherlock had ever seen. “You’re welcome.”

“I will kill you,” Sherlock growled and glowered. “I will kill you, cut you into tiny pieces, and dump you in the Mediterranean.”

Wilkes scratched at his own cheek with his middle finger. “Why don’t you deduce what I think about that?”

And with that, Wilkes disappeared into the crowd. Of all the rotten luck to have to live in the same room as that snake of a human being. And even worse that Sherlock had been so blatantly staring that even Wilkes could see what Sherlock felt about that man. His face blazed with a mixture of rage and mortification, and he only wished the ratio had favored rage more, because he couldn’t resist looking over.

He’d expected that the man would either laugh it off or be disgusted, and either way, he would have moved along. But when Sherlock glanced over, the man still stood in the same place, body squared to Sherlock, hands in his pockets, relaxed and casual as could be. The man’s tongue pulled his lower lip between his teeth, and before he could catch himself, Sherlock bit his.

He undid the action as quickly as he could, but it was too late. The corners of the man’s mouth twitched, and his stomach and shoulders moved in a way that could only indicate a sharp exhale, probably a laugh. And then the man strolled away.

Sherlock let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

Well, at least the man wasn’t straight.

***

Sherlock nursed his second beer. It was getting late. It was almost lights out (which was ridiculous, really, to have a curfew for a group of ostensible adults, but then, most of his classmates were idiots), but he was loath to leave the hotel bar for his room. Not out of some misguided hope that the man from the dock might show up. He wasn’t delusional.

No, he was avoiding his roommate, who would not shut up about the supposed favor he did Sherlock. And he seemed proud of it. He really thought he’d done something good for Sherlock, that he “might be less of a cock if he got some.” But while Sherlock wasn’t exactly in the closet, having his orientation (and preference for older men) literally shouted out in a crowd was infuriating, and if Sherlock hadn’t left the room, he would have murdered Wilkes. And he was certainly not about to spend his life in prison for that prick.

Well, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. What were the prisons like in Crete?

He ruffled his fingers through his hair, tangled and unruly from the salt air. The semester wasn’t even half over, but going home early would have been worse. God, he’d never hear the end of it from Mycroft. _How will you learn independence? You’ve missed pivotal cultural experiences. Just like you to break a commitment._

The bartender set down a napkin and a rocks glass with two fingers of something brown in it.

Sherlock squinted at it.

The bartender nodded towards somewhere to Sherlock’s rear. “Corner booth.”

Sherlock didn’t dare turn around. He wouldn’t have his hopes dashed like that. It wasn’t like this had never happened to him before. In fact, he had a handful of bars he infrequented in London where it was guaranteed. So, he checked the mirror behind the bar.

Sherlock’s heart jumped into his throat, his fingers tingling, his palms sweaty. It was the man from the dock, and he was onto Sherlock. His body language communicated a casual attitude, like nothing out of the ordinary was happening here, but his eyes met Sherlock’s in the mirror as he took a slow sip from a matching drink and licked the residue from his lips. Sherlock froze, gaze caught on the man’s reflection.

After a moment, the man raised his eyebrows, and something inside Sherlock shattered. Fuck curfew. Fuck Wilkes. Fuck propriety and inhibitions and embarrassment. The sexiest man he’d seen in months wanted him, and he was going to go for it.

He downed the drink--scotch, apparently--in one burning swig and chased it with a sip of beer as he strode over to the man’s table.

He sat without asking permission, without saying a word.

“That was an expensive scotch.”

English. Sherlock had to admit that wasn’t what he was expecting. “I suppose I should feel guilty for shooting it, then.”

The man chuckled. “Do you?”

“No.”

The man waved to the bartender, held up his glass, and raised one finger. “I had hoped we could sit and enjoy our drinks for a bit.”

Sherlock peered down at the tabletop, cleared his throat, scooted a bit closer. “I’ve never been a patient person.”

“Oh?” His hand slid off the table to land on Sherlock’s knee.

Sherlock tensed, then forced himself to relax, letting his legs fall open just a bit. The man hummed sotto voce and swirled his fingertips over Sherlock’s inner thigh, just above the knee, sending tingles over Sherlock’s scalp. The world outside the booth grew fuzzy. His breathing slowed. The man’s breath fluttered over Sherlock’s neck, and he would have moaned had they not been out in public.

The man’s nose bumped Sherlock’s ear as his hand slid up Sherlock’s inseam. “I am.”

The man’s hand dropped from Sherlock’s lap just in time for the bartender to place the fresh drink on the table. Sherlock blinked, his mind struggling to reboot enough for him to figure out the context of _I am_.

“Cheers,” the man said to the bartender. “Put his tab on mine as well.”

With a nod, the bartender left.

“Now,” the man said, startling Sherlock back to the moment. “Shall we give the scotch another go?”

Really? After touching Sherlock like that, he wanted to just go back to having a drink? What was he on about? “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

The man laughed. “God, no, but you need to have at least one proper sip of it.”

For God’s sake, couldn’t they just leave? “Why?”

The man turned his body to face Sherlock. “What’s your name?”

“Sherlock.”

“Well, Sherlock.” The man resumed his place on Sherlock’s thigh, hot breath ruffling the hair behind Sherlock’s ear. “If you can slow down and savor it, we’ll have a lot more fun, don’t you think?”

Sherlock swallowed. _Oh, yes._ He couldn’t help but imagine basking in this man’s attention, long, slow sex that would leave him feeling treasured, hazy, utterly relaxed. He imagined that tongue roaming his body, wriggling on his cock.

So, Sherlock lifted the glass, the man’s eyes on him a palpable force. He stopped to take in the aroma, letting his eyes flutter shut at the scents of smoke and vanilla, at the sound of the man’s sigh. And he sipped, large enough to get the full flavor but small enough to curl around his tongue. And as he opened his eyes, he swallowed, his throat bobbing, the man’s gaze rapt on his Adam’s apple. Sherlock pressed his lips together, pushed his tongue between them and let it make a slow trip across.

“Smooth,” Sherlock said, though his voice was rough.

“Can I take you on my boat?” The man’s hand was at the top of Sherlock’s thigh, nearly at the joint of his hip.

Sherlock swayed into his gravity. “You can take me right here if you want.”

“Oh,” the man breathed as though it had been punched from his lungs. “That’s nice.”

And much to Sherlock’s delight and horror, the man couldn’t quite resist, pressing his palm to Sherlock’s groin. Sherlock’s whole body jumped, including his cock, which took great and sudden interest in the proceedings. He felt lightheaded with it. He wanted to whine, to press into that wicked hand, but he didn’t want to bring attention.

“Oh,” the man whispered, reverently this time. “That _is_ nice.”

Sherlock gripped the edge of the seat, biting his lip to keep from making a sound. His cheeks blazed, and he hid it behind the man’s face. In another second he might have nuzzled it.

But the man lifted his palm, trailing his fingernails over Sherlock’s thigh, raising goosebumps at the back of his neck. He pressed his mouth to Sherlock’s ear.

“Do you need a minute, or would you like to leave now?”

Sherlock nearly jumped out of the booth. “Now.”

The man slid out and offered Sherlock a hand. “Best walk behind me, hm?”

Sherlock nodded, took the man’s hand, and kept close behind as he led them out.


	2. Chapter 2

“Freedom?” Sherlock read out the name on the side of the boat, and immediately regretted it, his cheeks heating in a way that just made him feel more mortified. He couldn’t help the stream of deductions that had come from the name alone, and in the midst of the mental tide, his mouth had just opened and uttered his incredulity. What could this man possibly have to escape? He seemed so relaxed and confident, but then… Oh, of course. How could he have been so stupid? The man was that way because he escaped… whatever it was.

It made Sherlock wonder: was he just another means of escape? And if so, did he care?

The man hopped on board and offered Sherlock a hand up. “I know. Not terribly creative, but true.”

Sherlock bit his lower lip to keep himself from asking more as they ducked under the furled mainsail and made their way down the stairs to the cabin. At the bottom, the man unlocked the door, walked through, and held the door open for Sherlock.

As soon as Sherlock crossed the threshold, the man was on him, pushing his hips to the wall as the rest of his body crowded against Sherlock’s. His nose nudged Sherlock’s, and Sherlock tilted his head, chasing the man’s mouth, though each time he tried, the man pulled back with a wicked smile. Eventually, and just when Sherlock was about to scream, the man let their lips touch. Gently. Just a whisper of a touch and a flick of the tongue against Sherlock’s upper lip.

Sherlock tried to capture the man’s tongue, or at least meet it with his own, but the man pulled back again, humming as his tongue swept between his lips.

Lucky lips.

God, Sherlock craved it. He wanted the lingering taste of scotch mingling on their tongues. He wanted soft, sighing kisses. He wanted kisses so deep that it left his chin smeared with saliva, but when he swooped to capture the man’s mouth, the heels of his hands pressed into the hollows of Sherlock’s hips, holding him at arm’s length. And though he didn’t say a word, the intention was clear: I’m the one in charge here.

Sherlock felt a lightning bolt of lust surge through him even as his thoughts raced. _He likes control. He felt out of control wherever he was before, certainly somewhere in England._ His hands fell to the man’s--he thought to put up some token resistance, egg him on--but one finger alit on a small callus between the middle and ring fingers of his left hand. _Divorced. Recently. From a woman. No children. At least fifteen years, going by the depth of the callus. Married young, then. Was Sherlock his first—_

No. He was not doing that. His ridiculous brain had ruined it the other time he’d attempted sex, blurting about blackmail, and he would not let it happen again. God, he’d almost forgotten about it. Thought he’d deleted it until he almost did it again. 

Sherlock startled at fingers in his hair.

“If you don’t like that sort of stuff, it’s fine.”

Sherlock squinted. “What are you on about?”

The man’s hands slid down Sherlock’s neck to knead at his shoulders. “You’re tight as a drum.”

Sherlock let out a long breath and let his head fall back, let hands work the tension from his shoulders. “You should gag me.”

The man let out a quiet, sharp exhale, either surprise or amusement, and Sherlock wasn’t about to open his eyes to verify. “Not that I’m complaining, but why?”

“I’ll say something wrong, and you’ll hate me.”

This time the sound was definitely a chuckle. “Honestly? You’re so beautiful and so responsive that you could call me the Antichrist, and I’d still want to fuck you.”

Sherlock opened his eyes just to blink for an indeterminate amount of time. “Really?”

The man chuckled again. “God, yeah.”

“Oh.” Sherlock chewed his lip, pondering.

The man tugged Sherlock’s lip out of his mouth. “It’s obviously distracting you, so you might as well say it.”

“Have you slept with men before?”

The man ducked his head and scratched his nape. “Yeah. One or two.”

 _Oh. Of course._ “That’s why you divorced.”

The man’s mouth popped open. “How did you know about that?”

Sherlock could feel his heart trying to claw its way up his throat. No. None of that. He shrugged, peered at his feet. “Callus on your ring finger. That, coupled with the name of your boat.”

“Brilliant.”

Sherlock’s head popped up. “What?”

“That”--the man slid his fingers into the hair on Sherlock’s nape and stepped closer--”was amazing.”

Sherlock’s fingers and lips tingled. His face flushed. “Really?”

The man nodded, sleepy eyes on Sherlock’s lips before he finally gave Sherlock a proper kiss. He smelled like the sea, like salt and sun and scotch, smoky and sweet. His tongue was a menace, flicking and retreating, long, deep licks and then denial. It drove Sherlock crazy. It frustrated him. It made him harder than the mast on this ship. It made him push his groin against the man’s stomach, push up on his toes to grind against it while his head was held still.

Which only made the man break the kiss and return his hands to Sherlock’s hips, stilling them.

Sherlock whined before catching himself and bit his lip to stop it.

The man rubbed his thumb against Sherlock’s bottom lip to free it. “God, you’re gorgeous. So responsive.”

Sherlock pushed against the one hand still holding a hip, blushing. “It’s been a while.”

The man’s other hand returned to Sherlock’s other hip, pushing him back against the wall as his own arms flexed to keep Sherlock at arm’s length, his gaze rapt on Sherlock’s groin. Meanwhile, Sherlock’s gaze was rapt on the man’s arms, strong and sinewy from sailing, a clear tan line on his upper arm. He must have been sailing for weeks. _Fuck._ Just the image of this man trimming sails, working the rudder as sea air blew through his hair was turning him on.

The man dropped his arms and backed farther into the cabin. “No need to make excuses. You’re exactly what I want.”

Sherlock’s feet moved along with the man as if on their own, as if his body couldn’t stand too much distance between them. “Do you have a crew?”

The man chuckled, sliding open the door to the bedroom. “No one’s going to walk in on us if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“It’s not.”

The man nodded to the foot of the bed, and Sherlock sat. His fingers went to Sherlock’s buttons, popping them open with confidence and efficiency, no sign of the nerves now zinging through Sherlock’s system.

“Do you operate the boat by yourself?”

The man nodded as he pushed the center of Sherlock’s chest. He needn’t have bothered, the mere force of Sherlock’s fantasies would have knocked him over. And just to know he was right, to know this man sailed this boat himself, probably all the way from London, worked his body into a finely tuned machine. He couldn’t wait to see the machine in action.

Despite the fact that the man had already worked open Sherlock’s belt and trouser button, Sherlock scrambled to sit up and tug at the man’s shirt.

He placed his palm on Sherlock’s chest and stepped back. “I thought I was clear where I wanted you.”

Sherlock moaned and fell back to the bed, his own fingers gripping at his hair.

He startled at the man’s lips on his sternum, the murmur against his skin of, “There’s a good boy.”

Sherlock arched his back, the words and the touch sweeping over him like a warm blanket.

“Oh,” the man whispered, lips grazing over a nipple. “That’s lovely. You gorgeous thing.”

Sherlock hands fell limp to the bed as he hummed. His scalp tingled. His cock pulsed. _Keep going._

The man’s hands fell to Sherlock’s trousers, palm slipping between the layers of fabric to cup Sherlock through his pants. As he stroked up and down, tickled his fingers over Sherlock’s perineum, he hummed in return. One knee came up on the bed, and he leaned over, mouth to Sherlock’s ear.

“Beautiful,” he whispered.

Sherlock gasped. His cock surged into the man’s touch.

“Oh, you like that.” The man’s nose followed the curvature of Sherlock’s ear, hot breath fluttering and leaving Sherlock hazy, until his tongue found Sherlock’s pulse point. “I’d almost like to watch you touch yourself while I praise you.”

Sherlock felt a softly whispered, “Oh,” escape his mouth before he’d realized he intended to speak, but God, that sounded incredible. Watching him watch Sherlock, having his full, adoring attention. Sherlock imagined himself nude, the man sitting fully clothed nearby, murmuring, “Just like that,” or, “Beautiful.” It made his toes curl.

“Maybe some other time.” The man stood, urging Sherlock’s hips up until he could slide Sherlock’s pants and trousers down his thighs. “I’ll be the one to make you come tonight.”

The man kneeled to remove Sherlock’s shoes and socks, and Sherlock moaned, loud and wanton. He blanched for a moment, so accustomed to cramped living that the volume of it shocked him, but then the man sighed. He slipped the last bits of clothing of Sherlock’s body and murmured, “Christ, that’s gorgeous.”

Then, he grabbed Sherlock’s hand to guide it to Sherlock’s own cock. “Maybe just a preview, hmm?”

Sherlock’s breath stuttered as the man stood and walked to the head of the bed, rummaging in a small set of drawers recessed into the wall. He could only arch his neck to watch until the man turned back to him, raised his brows. “Well? On you go.”

Finally, Sherlock’s hand gained some coordination, wrapping loosely around the base of his cock. He used his other hand to flutter his fingertips over the length of his shaft, roll the foreskin back from his glans, slick his fingertip over a bead of precome forming at the slit. He knew this wasn’t quite what the man was asking for, but he was unwilling to do much more. He didn’t want to escalate. He’d keep himself at this already excruciating level of arousal, but anything more, he wanted the man to do it. And so he watched, teasing himself as the man fetched a bottle of lube and a condom and returned to kneel at the foot of the bed, between Sherlock’s knees.

He set both on the floor before slipping his hands around Sherlock’s ankles and lifting. “Put your feet on my shoulders.”

Sherlock did so as the man nudged him down the bed until his hips were on the edge, arse hanging just over, and the man’s nose level with his perineum. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it, the hot breath tickling between his cheeks as the man’s thumbs swept down, pushing them apart.

“Lovely,” he murmured, and then his hands were gone. Sherlock felt unmoored, utterly exposed and vulnerable, and he was surprised by how intensely arousing it was. He could usually predict how people would behave, but here, in an unfamiliar situation with an unfamiliar person, he felt certain that despite having no idea (well, perhaps a bit of an idea) what the man was planning, his body was certain it was about to have the time of its life.

And when the man’s hands returned, one cradling a buttock as the other, slick, circled Sherlock’s hole, Sherlock startled. They hadn’t gotten this far in his previous attempt at sex, and he was surprised by the cold. But more than that, he was surprised by how much he liked it. He knew on an intellectual level how sensitive the anus could be, but knowing and experiencing had nothing to do with one another.

And then the finger slipped inside, and the world stopped turning. Sherlock’s hands stilled; his toes clenched over the man’s shoulders. He even stopped breathing, waiting in mad anticipation as the finger invaded, slid, probed, seeking his prostate, another area with a great concentration of nerve endings, but he had no idea what it really felt like to—

“Oh, _fuck_.” God, that was incredible, the man’s finger slowly, gently circling, pressure and tension slowly building. So excruciating that Sherlock forgot what he was supposed to be doing until a slick hand encircled his shaft, stroking in time with the finger—no, fingers—inside him. Sherlock rocked between them, the tempo of calm seas, though he wanted to buck into them, grind down until orgasm sparked and burned through him. But more than that, he wanted to be good for the man. He wanted the man’s cooing of _gorgeous_ and _brilliant_ and _so good for me_ to go on forever.

He couldn’t see past the pleasure, the spring slowly coiling in his groin. He could only concentrate on the slow stretch, on slick, callused hands, on the voice as smooth as silk, on the velvety tongue that occasionally stroked along his perineum or wriggled between his testicles. No unbidden thoughts were floating to the surface beyond _yes_ and _more_ and _call me a good boy again_. Hell, he couldn’t even speak beyond the occasional grunt or moan that only grew more frequent with each passing second.

Until the man paused. Until he slowly eased fingers from Sherlock’s arse. Until he stood. Then, Sherlock whimpered. He pouted. His feet flopped to the floor, and he would have curled up to have a good sulk if he’d thought he could move.

But then the man patted his hip, and Sherlock should have been disturbed by how long it took him to understand the man’s request to scoot up the bed, but instead, he silently did as he was asked. He was tempted to roll over, pull his legs up underneath him and offer himself for the taking, to revel in the man pounding into him as his face and chest skidded on the duvet. But he had the distinct impression that the man didn’t want that, though he couldn’t explain why. _He_ couldn’t explain why.

So instead, he lay back and pulled his knees to his chest, watched with rapt fascination as the man climbed up the bed, hooked one of Sherlock’s legs over his elbow and guided Sherlock to wrap the other one around his waist.

He took the same tempo fucking Sherlock as he did preparing him, so slow and metronomical that Sherlock wondered whether they or the sea beneath them were the ones rocking like that. And still the tension coiled within him. He could feel each stroke against his prostate like a tiny orgasm that grew stronger with each thrust, that made him yearn more and more for the real thing, that had him canting his hips with each thrust, urging for more speed, more pressure, until finally the man pinned his wrists and fucked him hard.

His cock ached and pulsed, and he strained to reach for it and take himself in hand, but the man wouldn’t have it. He panted into Sherlock’s ear, “You can do it. Come for me.”

In a few more strokes, he did, and it felt like it came all the way from his toes. His quaking body would have registered at least a ten on the Richter scale. It probably went on for minutes, and he felt so wrung out when he was finished that he was surprised he was still conscious.

Though he couldn’t be quite sure he hadn’t lost it at some point because the first thing he noticed after his body unfurled was the man curling up next to him, rubbing a damp flannel over Sherlock’s stomach.

He kissed Sherlock’s cheek. “You were absolutely perfect.”

Sherlock turned his face, knocked the man’s nose, and kissed him without a thought, slow and sleepy.

The man tucked a curl behind Sherlock’s ear. “How long are you in Crete?”

Sherlock smiled. “Is that an invitation?”

“You bet your arse it is.”

Sherlock curled to the man’s side. “Good.”

The man slipped his arm under Sherlock’s neck to run his fingers through damp curls. “Good.”

“You’re going to get me in so much trouble.”

The man chuckled. “That sounds like my line.”

“Oh? I’m the one who’ll have you out past curfew every night for the next two weeks?”

“Will you be in much trouble?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Who cares?”

“Won’t there be questions? What will you tell them?”

“That I went home with someone.”

The man hummed. “Seems risky.”

“I really can’t be arsed to care.”

The man’s eyes twinkled. “But what if they asked for my name?”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “Then I’d tell them…”

“John.”

Sherlock kissed him. “Lovely to meet you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks once again to iamjohnlocked4life for the beta. And many thanks to Martin for looking so fine and scruffy lately.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to iamjohnlocked4life for the beta, and smirkdoctor and scienceofobsession for the inspiration.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover Art] for An Erotic Sail](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13683696) by [IamJohnLocked4art (IamJohnLocked4life)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamJohnLocked4life/pseuds/IamJohnLocked4art)




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